And the Head Healer gives way, fading into the background.

It’s not a position he’s accustomed to, handing over responsibility. But Strange is the assistant now, handing Isaac whatever he needs: the man obediently vanishes to the cabinets to fetch magebane, lyrium, passes it over as well as a bowl of water and towels as needed for cleaning hands, but otherwise he hovers just out-of-reach, watchful and waiting.

The worry doesn’t show on his face. His expression’s settled into that same stiff neutrality as the other healer’s; a professional commonality, not betraying how bad the situation is.

(It’s bad.)